I explained to Dr Shejavali that our hiring a vehicle would no doubt invite unwanted attention, which could result in interference and harassment and may even thwart our purpose. Dr Shejavali, a courageous and greatly respected opponent to the South African occupation and its policies in Namibia, had not been in his position very long by then and was widely regarded as a stickler for correct procedures. Highly principled, he would not permit the unauthorised use of CCN vehicles or funds under any circumstances. He pointedly responded: ‘But my brother, you are not engaged in CCN work. That precludes the use of a CCN vehicle.’
I respectfully urged him to adopt a wider view of CCN work and its mandate, and gave a detailed overview of the issues raised in the case.
Dr Shejavali listened attentively. He was persuaded, and relented in the generous spirit that has characterised all my interactions with him. A CCN vehicle could be used. He went further and gave the case his blessing and his warm support, as he did to my subsequent cases and work.
Samson was to leave the next day for the area. He would spend the weekend tracking down relatives and then bring them to the service station on the following Tuesday morning. Hosea would also proceed separately, obtaining a lift to the north and arriving a day ahead of me so that he could start consultations very early on the Tuesday morning before my arrival. He could, at that stage, still travel without being under observation from the authorities. My arrival would be noticed, however. I would stick out starkly: a white civilian in a non-military vehicle, a very rare phenomenon. It was too risky for me to be observed before witnesses were already at our consultation venue.
I left my office late on the Monday afternoon and stayed over at the mining town of Tsumeb, some 450 km from Windhoek and about 250 km from Ongwediva. I arrived at the Minen Hotel at about sunset. The northern areas were declared security districts, under proclamation AG 9. Those areas were previously referred to as the police zone. You entered the Owambo area through a military and police checkpoint and gate in the veterinary fence at Oshivelo some 90 km north of Tsumeb into a military zone where martial law was effectively in place.
The curfew was rigidly and relentlessly enforced, without regard for human life. No movements other than those of security force members were permitted between sunset and sunrise. Vehicles could be – and were, in fact – shot at for a breach of the curfew, at times with fatal or severe consequences. Everyone travelling to and from Owambo would need to pass through the permanent military checkpoint at Oshivelo. There were also several other checkpoints within Owambo, some permanent and others temporary, the latter dependent upon recent insurgency in specific areas. These checkpoints caused considerable resentment for those living in the area. People were not only questioned in a disrespectful and often aggressive manner. Body searches were also routinely conducted, without regard to the dignity of those being searched. Vehicles were also searched, again mostly with contempt or at best indifference for the dignity of the occupants.
There was an all-pervasive military presence in the area, characterised by the constant movement of convoys of large mine-protected vehicles carrying heavily armed SADF troops or members of the notorious paramilitary police counterinsurgency unit known as Koevoet. At least three different variants of these vehicles were used: Casspirs, Hippos and Buffels (buffaloes). They were ever present. There were also others – mostly named after wild animals – which were encountered less frequently. Occasionally, more ferocious-looking armoured columns of highly mobile light tanks and armoured personnel carriers called Ratels (the Afrikaans word for honey badgers, very resilient, aggressive mammals) could also be encountered.
Before leaving Windhoek, I had prepared a number of draft affidavits with different permutations in typed form. This was done so that I could, for the large part, merely type in the relevant personal and other details. Of course, this was well before the advent of personal computers. I had taken along an electric IBM golf ball typewriter to make the necessary insertions and for typing other affidavits, as may be required and when I was able to do so. The mission where we would stay (like most places in Owambo) was not on any grid and dependent upon a generator for power.
After I checked in at the Minen Hotel, I took a table on the open veranda beer garden area where meals were served as well as thirst-quenching beers. I had barely placed my supper order when I recognised a familiar figure striding to the hotel’s reception area. A warrant officer in the security police. I could see from my vantage point not far off that he was checking the hotel register and speaking to the receptionist. Within minutes, he swung around to scan the dining area on the veranda. Seconds later his gaze settled upon me. He immediately made his way over to my table and greeted me by my first name with forced familiarity which irked me – a security police custom I made a point of never reciprocating. He awkwardly attempted small talk by pointing out that we were both out of town and asked where I was proceeding or whether I was in Tsumeb for a case. I was taken aback at his directness. I did not want to appear too defensive in my response. Maintaining my composure, I merely said off-hand that I had some work in the area and expected to be back in Windhoek very soon, by the night after the next, at the latest – being very vague but at the same time accurate in the sparse detail I provided. He could see that I would not be drawn further into discussion, and left as quickly as he had arrived. This came as a surprise to me. Very few people knew of my movements. Only Hosea and my trusted secretary, Anita Witt, knew that I would be staying at that hotel that evening. Neither would have readily divulged this information. I subsequently found out from Anita that a close friend with whom I had studied in the US had called from Mexico City late that afternoon. When she was informed that I was out of town, she insisted on a telephone number from Anita where she could reach me that evening. After some persistence, Anita had reluctantly given my friend the hotel’s phone number, which was no doubt picked up by the security police in their eavesdropping and then easily traced to the hotel.
I left early the next morning so that I could reach the military checkpoint at Oshivelo shortly after it opened. There were a few extra temporary checkpoints that day in Ovambo. About halfway to Ongwediva, a gaping hole in the bitumen-surfaced national road bore testimony to the low-intensity war in the area. A landmine must have been detonated there a day or two before. There was a heavy military presence in evidence for much of the way, especially from about 60 km south of Ondangwa following a checkpoint at Okatope, which was home to a Koevoet base as well as an SADF base on opposite sides of the national road.
I arrived at the service station by mid-morning to find Hosea immersed in consultation. Some twenty people were sitting in the ample shade afforded by a huge, indigenous sycamore fig tree on the premises of the service station. Hosea had been at it since quite early. Progress, he said, had been very slow, however. It had taken some time to win the trust of the people and explain what information we needed.
Our consulting room was tiny. We shared a table. At one end, I typed in the details supplied by Hosea, who made his notes at the other end while consulting the people in their shared vernacular. February falls at the peak of the summer raining season. It was hot and humid. The small fan in that cramped office was strained at its optimum speed, struggling to make any discernible difference. After some time, I became concerned at our rate of progress. Each person spoke at considerable length to Hosea. Sometimes it would eventually turn out that they were not related to a detainee – or, if they were, they had not visited their relative. But all this took time to establish. We had decided to take affidavits only from those who had actually visited detainees or from relatives of those detainees whose detention had been admitted by the military in correspondence with me.
We both felt that it was crucial to have at least three duly signed affidavits that afternoon and to complete the rest the next day after typing them overnight. We were concerned that the military or the security police – or, worse still, Koevoet – may become aware of our work and that witnesses may be interfered with overnight. Other practical difficulties also stood in our way. There were no lawyers in full-time practice in that area. The only commissioners of oath whom we could approach with some degree of confidence were the branch managers of the two major banks in Oshakati. It was, of course, out of the question to have affidavits commissioned at